


Soldier On

by Fangirlingmanaged



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Army AU, Captain Castiel Novak, Dean Angst, Dean Feels, Fluff and Angst, Happy Ending, Hurt Dean Winchester, Lieutenant Colonel Dean Winchester - Freeform, Mental Health Issues, Multi, Nightmares, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Protective Castiel, Soldier Castiel, Soldier Dean, Some angst, some gore?
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-08-02
Updated: 2015-08-04
Packaged: 2018-04-12 13:13:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,159
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4480571
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Fangirlingmanaged/pseuds/Fangirlingmanaged
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dean Winchester doesn’t know how to be anything but a soldier. The death of his father brings forth a few questions about where he is and what he’s going to do. After some internal debate, he decides to resign from his post and move on to the quiet town of Sioux Falls with his pseudo family. There, he meets Captain Castiel Novak. A man who has seen and lived too much, but has finally managed to do something with his life. He feels a piece of himself is still missing, and Dean feels as though ALL of him is missing. Maybe together they’ll finally manage to figure it out.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Sink or Swim

**Author's Note:**

> KEEP IN MIND THIS IS A WORK IN PROGRESS  
> Anyways, I watched American Sniper a few days ago and was inspired. This is what came of it.   
> P.S. My love for Bradley Cooper just grows and grows.

_General Winchester served with more zealousness than any other young cadet ever could at his advanced age. Though he had to be forced behind a desk, strategizing rather than marching with his boys, he was still well respected and loved by any who came under his command. In this tragic time of loss, let us remember all that General Winchester did for us, and all that he has left behind. Let us remember, and let us be inspired by the great career of service he gave for his country; barring any and all circumstances that might have tried to keep him from his post._

_Yeah,_ Dean Winchester thinks as he stands impassively next to his younger brother in his dark blue uniform. Pants and jacket pristinely pressed, his hat neither tilted nor askew, and his shoes polished to perfection, glaring in the bright sun. He keeps his hands locked behind his back, his feet apart at rest, and his face an impassive blank mask. _Any and all circumstances, including his damn family. His fucking wife who died because he wasn’t there; his children who grew up orphaned; his fucking son who became a man sooner than he had to._

_Let us remember him as he surely wished to be remembered. As the soldier who would have given his life for his younger officers, and any American in need. Let us remember the cause of his death as another heroic act of charity rather than a mindless act of violence._

It takes every shred of control the army has given him for Dean not to storm off the cemetery as those words are delivered. He rakes his eyes around the rest of the suckers there, including his brother, and finds the eyes of Lieutenant General Robert Singer impassively looking at him. Dean doesn’t break eye contact, he never has with a higher officer, and Lieutenant General Singer nods at him. When no one else is looking, he goes as far as rolling his eyes at the spiel that’s been said about Dean’s father. Dean has to suppress a wicked smile. In the time he has known Bobby, the man has always called him an idjit for not conforming, but look at him now. They both know the piece of work that John Winchester was, and they also know that the only reason Dean is actually here is for his brother. He hadn’t spoken to his family in months, but then one night while he was on leave the call came and he had come running back to Lawrence, and Sam had yelled at him. For making him be away from the firm in California, for not asking after Dad, for being on tour for so long; Sammy had yelled for so many things until one day he broke and had started smashing shit on their old house. He’d scared Kate and Adam, and had forced himself to get the hell out and passed out in a park. Dean had found him the next morning, and as he’d done when they were children, he’d let his little brother cry on his shoulder.

Now here they are, throwing slightly wet earth onto their father’s casket. Dean has attended enough of these military services to no longer have any reverence for them whatsoever. He’d rather just pretend like he cares, and say whatever he has to say in his head. His father wouldn’t mind, none of the boys he’s lost would to be honest, they’re all better at not saying what they feel. Dean grabs a handful of dirt, and lets it drizzle onto the wood where his father rests. _Rest not so peacefully, you selfish son of a bitch._

                                                                                      ***

His father’s death had made a few things clear for Lieutenant Colonel Winchester. For one, when he went back to what would become his last tour, he started asking himself the question that had gotten his boys’ killed. All three of them. He started wondering why he was still fighting the war. Why was he fighting and killing other sons, and daughters, and grandchildren, and cousins, and aunts, and uncles, and fathers, and mothers, if his own father had been assassinated on home soil? If his own father had been shot down, while unarmed, at an army facility on American soil? What was the damn point?

As soon as those questions popped into his head, he knew he’d already made his choice. Going out there would mean suicide because he wouldn’t be staying for any valuable reason. He wouldn’t be staying to serve his country, to keep his family safe; hell, he wouldn’t even be staying for what creepy Alistair was staying to enjoy the violence and bloodshed. He’d be staying for cowardice, because even as he requests his permanent leave there’s a knot in his stomach that asks him what now? What in the damn hell is he supposed to do? Sure, he has his savings. He was able to get some after Sam had acquired a steady income as a lawyer. His father has never needed him, his mother died when he was ten, and Sammy? Sammy’s a big, hot shot lawyer in California with a steady income, a steady girlfriend and even a mortgage. The kid doesn’t even have to worry about paying for tuition loans, Dean had that covered since he enlisted. So what now? What’s back home for him?

He ignores the big shout of _you ain’t got nothing!_ In the back of his mind as he gathers his things at the end of his tour. Sure, he’ll be on provision for some time yet, but there’s always new people who want to get promoted. There’s always willing soldiers out there. He goes about the camp, leaving notes for those who’re out fighting and won’t see him leave, and even hugging the ones he encounters on his way to the plane. Kevin pretends he’s not crying as Dean thumps him in the back, Alastair sneers and calls him a coward, Joshua gives him a serene smile and wishes him safe travels, Anael gives him a tight hug and a kiss on the cheek, and finally Michael goes and plants an open mouthed kiss on his lips. Dean pushes him away and laughs, but a chord in his heart snaps. What him and Michael had was nothing but sexual release, and they both know that, but a part of him knows that he’s going to miss the closeness. He’s gonna miss the way Michael wrapped him up and hugged him tight after a bad raid, he’s gonna miss the way Michael’s face twisted and morphed when he climaxed; he’s gonna miss what Michael would have become. In a different universe, at a different time, if Dean were able to feel differently about Michael than he does now.

They’re both crying as Dean waves goodbye, but they pretend it’s the air around them. Too hot, too stiff, too filled with dust; anything but the fact that the only person who made them feel like they were more than just soldiers is now gone. Dean’s chapter with Michael closes as the door to the plane does.

                                                                                      ***

Dean had arranged for Sam to look into a cheap place around Sioux Falls where Lieutenant General Robert Singer and his wife Ellen, and daughter Joanna Beth have lived all their lives. He knows that Ellen owns a burger joint and bar in the town, and that Joanna Beth is a cop because Bobby refused to let her enlist when she was of age, and that Bobby owns a garage that he owns but doesn’t manage because he’s still active. Albeit on desk duty, but he still can’t dedicate the time to make the business flourish and Ellen won’t hear of managing it herself, but neither will she hear about selling. Bobby’s Garage and Salvage is currently being managed by a spastic guy named Asher who spends fifty percent of his time stoned and the other fifty on his computer. Sure, he gets the orders and the payroll done okay, but the man is hopeless when it comes to cars. That job has to picked up by Bobby’s most trusted employees Rufus, who Bobby has known his whole life, and Benny, who moved up from Louisiana after some rough up with the authorities. When Bobby gets wind that Dean is back States’ side, the Lieutenant Colonel gets a stern talking to about communicating with his family.

After about an hour of being gruffly talked to by Bobby, threatened by Ellen, and yelled by Jo Dean gets told that he better get his freckled bum to South Dakota. Since Sam had already been looking for a place there for Dean, he settles there with relatively no buzz. Bobby lets drop the fact that he needs a manager for the garage on their first dinner together, and both Ellen and Jo snort at his lack of subtlety. At first, Dean’s hesitant about agreeing to take the job. He’s heard about Benny, and he’s met Rufus a few times when he’s gone to visit Bobby and the family. He doesn’t want to come in and intrude on their turf, seeing as they might be more capable of handling the garage since they know the business and the clientele. Bobby snorts and him, and Ellen eloquently smacks the back of his head, and by the end of the night Dean has agreed to stand in as manager provisionally while he learns the ropes. He makes Bobby promise him that if he’s not cut for the job then he’ll let him go back to being what he truly is, a lowly mechanic. He misses the proud smile Bobby gives him under the beard as he walks out of the door and towards Baby.

That night he’s tempted to sleep in his car. He sits there when he gets to his little one story home in the middle of nowhere, as everything else around, and considers getting his blanket and pillow from inside. The impala is the only thing that truly feels like home, and even when he was gone it hadn’t been touched by anyone but his brother. He’d left it with Sam in California, paid for a garage and everything, because he didn’t trust his father not to drive it. Sam only used her to give her the occasional tune up, but other than that she was all Dean’s. It’s the only place that makes him feel like he might still belong in this quiet, slow world. In the end, after what feels like hours and might be but might not, he walks into the house and silently prays for his mother to help him sleep that night.

Dean wakes up that at two twenty seven the next morning, and he’s drenched in sweat. His heart is beating so hard he fears it might stop any minute; his chest hurts from where it hits with each _ba-dum, ba-dum, ba-dum_ sound. He cards his fingers through his wet hair and sniffs loudly. He knows he’s crying, it’s kind of hard not to with the image of Mikey getting blown to pieces, or Kevin being left behind in the middle of a sandstorm. He tightens his fingers in his hair and on the sheets, and screams behind his clenched teeth. He knows he can scream as hard as he wants to, but he refuses to be that weak even if he is by himself. He breathes deeply a few times like he used to when he was little, one-two-three in, and one-two-three out, but he can’t fall back to sleep. It’s almost sunrise before he can close his eyes again, and not see gore.

                                                                                      ***

Dean has learned a few very important things in the six weeks that he’s been employed as the manager of Singer Garage and Salvage Yard. Number one, Rufus is a moody little shit who can kick his eyes in three different kinds of martial arts and will swear at him in seven different languages if he’s in one of his moods. Two, he should never question anything Rufus says when in one of said moods and should just agree that he is in incompetent. The first time it happened, Dean had argued like the stubborn bulldozer he can be, but a few choice words from Turner, a sneak smack to the back of the head, and a hyena laugh from Benny had him learning quickly. Number Three, if he wants to keep the garage in one piece he should hide the weed from Ash and not let him get more than seven cups and three espresso shots of coffee a day. He might have learned that from the time the dude set a car on fire in the backyard and then dropped a printer in there. Bobby was spitting mad about that one. The fourth and last thing, and what has saved Dean’s ass in more than one occasion, is that Benny is always right.

The man has turned into Dean’s personal Jiminy Cricket with his advice. At first, because Dean’s a former soldier and suspicious by nature, he kept a close eye on the man. With his ratty shirts and that god-awful cap he wears all the time, and the ripped and frayed jeans. That lasted for about three hours until a crisis arose and Benny was there. Pumping water into Ash, smacking Rufus away from Dean, and making the former soldier calm down. Now, they’re thick as thieves. Benny has quickly become his best friend, which is why Dean doesn’t clock him when he comes up to him with an idea.

“Maybe you should drop by the VA, brother,” Benny tells him one night as they’re locking up. It’s turning colder, and the days are becoming shorter. Dean likes and hates the change in weather. On the one hand, it’s cool and clear enough for him to finally realize that he’s away from the war; every time a gust of crisp cold wind hits him right on the face he reminds himself that he’s back home. On the other hand, though, he doesn’t know this weather anymore. Everything feels so alien to him.

Dean gives Benny his best imitation of his little brother’s bitch face and jams the door a little too hard. He hears Benny sigh from beside him, but knows the man won’t let up. He doesn’t need those damn civilians trying to tell him there’s something wrong with him. He tells himself that enough every time he can’t sleep at night, or he breaks something when an engine backfires in the garage, or almost stabs one of his new boys in the clavicle with a pencil when they sneak up on him. He knows he should be under control by now, but he sleeps with a gun under his pillow and a knife in the case. He has a whole cupboard stock up with supplies to survive for a month and another one with enough ammo to survive the zombie apocalypse. He knows he’s jaded, and broken, and if he doesn’t find the right glue to put himself back together again then he’ll go insane. He doesn’t need a damn crazy doctor to tell him that.

That’s why he just shakes his head and walks to the car. Benny follows him, and he knows the other man wants to push, but he opens the car door. He stares at Benny with a challenge in his eyes and then breathes a quiet sigh of relief when the other man relents. Benny says a quiet goodbye to him and then they’re both on their way.

A little, tiny, trembling part of Dean thinks the other man is right.

                                                                                      ***

Benny gets his wish a month later, though when it happens Dean knows he wishes he wouldn’t have hoped for it. The man didn’t hope for it to happen this way, obviously, but they find themselves right in the place where Benny wanted him to so the other man wins in the end. A woman in her forties helps Dean with the door as he’s coming into the office, and he grits his teeth and politely thanks her as he curses the cast and bandages on his right side in his head.

A few days before, Dean had gotten word from one of his old buddies about Azazel finally being put out of the troops. Dean had breathed a sigh of relief about his boys having one less thing to worry about. Azazel Morgan been a wild card, and not one of the good ones. Even before he went on his first tour, when they both were lowly cadets, Dean had known the man was trouble. From what Dean understood, Azazel had been found too unstable for him and the other recruits and so had been honorably discharged. He was not honorable, Dean and everyone on his unit knew it, but he had never been proven of foul play, _and_ they needed him out. So, honorable discharge it was. Dean had only been alerted because one time, a while back, he had gotten into a scuffle with the man and the other had promised to “hunt him down and make him pay.” Normally nobody on their right mind would take this seriously, but everyone knew about his instability.

Nobody thinks it would end the way it did, though, but Dean has always managed to find himself in some of the worse situations. Dean had had a stressful day at work when it happens; he hadn’t gotten more than two hours of sleep because of the nightmares for a week, and then he’d had to deal with Crowley, their competition, being a jackass about them stealing some of his customers. All in all, Dean wasn’t on his best alert behavior which is why he misses the footprints on his muddy lawn, and the slightly loose jangle of his front door know, or the slightly askew key dish at the entry way. He does, however, notice his jacket on the floor and the light from the guest room being on.

He doesn’t think about grabbing a weapon, even though he has enough to choose from, thinking his training will let him handle whatever he needs to. He’s stupid, but he’s half-awake as is, and when he pushes the door he hits someone’s back. He doesn’t have time to react when shot rings out, and he feels fire licking from his shoulder. He curses loudly and grabs the lamp from the bedside table. One half-awake, slightly dehydrated and a psychotic PTSD ridden vet do not a good combination make. Neither are on their game, and there’s a weird gold tint to Morgan’s crazy eyes, but Dean will be damned if he gets killed the way his father did. He throws the lamp at Azazel, which doesn’t hit him hard but disorients him enough for Dean to barrel into him. He pushes him against the opposite wall, the attacker’s wrist firmly on his grasp as he hits it against the wall again and again until the gun drops. Azazel won’t go down without a fight, though, and he hits Dean where his wound is the lieutenant colonel manages to clock him on the side of the head with his good elbow. Azazel crumbles to the ground, and Dean manages to realize that he’s quickly losing too much blood and dive for the phone that had dropped out of his pocket in the scuffle.

Somehow, he tells the operator that there’s an armed trespasser in his home. He might have said something about blood, but he doesn’t exactly know what because there’s darkness creeping on his vision, and he hears a faint _sir!_ That sounds too much like Mikey to be real before he passes out.

                                                                                      ***


	2. Rise and Shine, Greenie

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Title is a line from The Maze Runner

Dean wakes up to the sound of his own heart, which is oddly comforting. It’s the only thing that is still normal in the sudden brightness that assaults his eyes. Everything is too whitewashed, and bright. The ceiling, which is the first thing he sees, is a combination of white and bright gold. There’s the sound of beeping, and his heart spiking as he gains wakefulness, but then quickly clenches his eyes shut. _Son of a bitch! That’s bright_ , he curses at himself. He lays there as new sounds come, the chafing of cloth on skin and the soft spoken words of a man and a woman. Seeing as he doesn’t recognize either voice he guesses that they’re a nurse and a doctor. The woman is telling something to the man as he assents, and there are hands on him. Rough, calloused hands that also feel familiar because they feel like Mikey’s. He allows himself to relax after he makes sure there are no threats, still with his eyes closed, as the man continues his inspection.

“I know you’re awake, Lieutenant Colonel,” the man says with a trace of amusement and a soft twang. Dean finds himself smirking despite the pain, and for a brief second thinks about flirting with the nurse even though his eyes are still closed, but he doesn’t.

“Too bright,” is all he said. He has a brief moment to wonder why he suddenly sounds like he’s been gargling with gravel, but other than that the inspection continues in good order.

“Doc says that you’re doing fine, sir. You’ll be going home in no time,” he sighs as there are loud noises coming from outside his room. The nurse mumbles something that sounds like “and not too soon, with that moose hanging around.” Dean decides the young man, he sounds young, isn’t so bad as he gets a soft chuckle in return and a pat on his thigh. The nurse says something about coming back later when he’s about to get released, and then Dean has too much to focus on.

“Dean!” his brother calls as he basically _gallops_ into the room. The sound of a chair dragging sounds from Dean’s left, and he decides that he might be able to open his eyes now. He glances to his left after blinking a few times, and all he can see is two big, hazel eyes looking at him with a distinct _puppy_ look that has Dean groaning. He’s going to have to put up with some serious coddling from his moose brother, but he figures that it could be worse.

“Sammy, I’m fine,” he begins, but he gets cut offed trying to wonder how his brother morphs his face so quickly. As soon as the word _fine_ leaves his lips, Sam is giving him the deepest bitch face he has ever seen. Dean inconspicuously wiggles down, and tries to get comfortable. He knows there’s a huge sermon coming his way.

“You are _not_ fine, Dean! You were shot! You almost bled to death! How can you tell me you’re fine?!” Dean can practically see the angry steam coming out of his brother’s ears, and he tries to mask his amusement at his brother’s expense. He understands, somewhere deep inside, that he could have died. He’s used to it, though, he has four bullet wounds from his tours. Sam has just never seen him this way.

“I’ll survive, Sam. It’s not the first time, and I will live. Plus!” he says, and tries to sound enthusiastic. “I don’t have to go back to combat after this. I can take it slow. Come on, man, I just wanna get out of here,” he tries to give his best puppy eyes to his brother, but they don’t work as well. Sam just frowns at him harder.

“Dean, the doctors said that you were _dehydrated!_ They also told me you had low levels of adrenaline in your system! I talked to Benny, Dean, and he said that you haven’t been sleeping!” Sammy makes a frustrated sound and drags a hand through his long mane. Dean feels bad for him, and he looks down at where his hands are fisting the sheets and tries not to look like a scolded kid. “It’s the nightmares, isn’t it?” Sam’s voice is quiet and sad, and Dean feels like shit. He never meant to put this on his brother. He understand what Sammy might feel; having Dean out of the war was supposed to mean that he was safe, and look at him now. Stuck in a damn hospital because his dumbass got shot at.

Still, Dean can’t admit defeat. It’s a damn bad habit he had inherited from the general himself. He doesn’t need help; he’s being denying himself from what the VA offers him because he doesn’t want to be weak. He hadn’t been brought down by the gore and the evil of the war, and yet his own stupid nightmares are going to get him killed? Hell no! So all he does is look as sincere as he can as he tells his brother that he “will be _fine,_ Sammy.”

“You’re not fine, Dean!” Sam explodes, and Dean looks up at him surprised as the moose looms over him. It’s been a while since he’s seen Sammy this angry, and Dean takes a moment to analyze his brother. He looks tired, his hair all unkempt and wearing a flannel that has seen better days. His eyes look droopy, and his skin looks pale. Obviously, Sam is also in need of some help.

“You look like hell, Sammy,” Dean tells him sincerely. And his brother blows air out his nose, seeming to deflate as he lets himself drop back down on the chair. Sam cards his fingers through his hair again, and he chuckles wearily.

“Yeah, not my best few days, jackass. I was kind of too worried about your ass to sleep,” Sam tells him with another tired laugh. Dean smirks at him and reaches over to punch him. _This_ he’s familiar with, this banter with his brother. They had been like this while their mother was in the hospital, as their father laid there after an injury in the field, as they made arrangements for his funeral.

“I’m sorry, little brother,” Dean tells him sincerely. His brother just shakes his head at him, and leans back against the back of his chair. They stare at each other for a while, and then something in Sam’s eyes changed.

“How are you, Dean?” Sam tells him, and somehow he knows that now is not the time to bullshit his brother. Sam has always been too in tune with him, and he can’t help but want to tell his brother. Maybe not everything, but at least _something_. If he really stops to think about it, he realizes that his stubbornness almost got him killed. He’d been taking horrible care of himself trying to be strong, and he’d ended up in hospital. He doesn’t even know what his diagnosis was, but he knows its probably not pretty.

“I’m…” finding the words for him are still hard for him, but Sam doesn’t pressure him. He just stays there, leaned back against his chair, and somehow it helps Dean get the right words. “I’m not sure if I’m okay, Sammy.”

“Hey,” Sam tells him, and pokes him on the thigh with one finger to get his attention. Normally, this would irk Dean to no end, but now he just finds it comforting. Sam and him, they’ve been able to see what’s between the lines since they were little, and so his little brother doesn’t disappoint him now.

Sam seems to contemplate him, and his words, for a minute longer before he breathes out. Dean watches him as he debates something with himself before he looks back at him. Whatever it is it’ll make him uncomfortable, and Dean knows it by the look of determination on his brother’s face, but he doesn’t stop him. He figures this is like medicine; it’s going to have a horrible taste before and after, but it’s gonna make him better in the end.

“Maybe…” Sam starts, and then falters. He leans forward in his chair and wrings his hands together. It’s a few minutes before he meets Dean’s gaze again, and then he begins with renewed conviction. “Have you ever thought about… talking to someone?”

Immediately Dean stiffens, and the conversation he had with Benny crops up in his mind. Suddenly he realizes that he’s been so goddamn stupid. Did it really take his almost death for him to realize that he needs help? Like hell, camp and then the gatherings he’s had with his old comrades are laddered with talks of PTSD. It’s not like he wasn’t aware of it being a problem, Kevin had had enough screaming awakenings for Dean to know, but he’d always known he was too strong for that. He has a vivid remembrance of waking up to his father’s screams when he was around five, and being too frightened to do more than curl under his blanket and wait as the screams changed to whimpers and then the soothing tones of his mother talking him down. Somehow, that image is what brings him to the conclusion he should have reached since the beginning.

“Benny… he might have mentioned it,” Dean tells his brother reluctantly. Sam meets his gaze, a hopeful look in his eyes. “I told him no, many times,” Dean watches the hope slowly file out of his brother. “But,” he smirks as Sam’s head snaps up, “maybe I knew he was right. As I know you’re right. I… it might help.”

Suddenly, Dean finds himself ensconced in the moose’s long limbs. A little weight lifts off his chest.

                                                                                      ***

So that’s how he finds himself in this predicament, listening to the spasm of energy that is Chuck Shurley as he walks him through the VA facility near his town. Chuck talks in stilted, nervous sentences since the beginning. Dean had found himself losing his patience quickly in the first few minutes of his conversation with the shorter man, and Chuck’s anxiety spiked. He stuttered even more, and wrung his hands together; at one point he even walked on the other side of the hall from Dean, which made the Lieutenant Colonel feel like shit.

He’d tried to apologize, but Chuck had waved him away. He’d been able to tell Dean about his short capture and recovery, about the way the enemy soldiers had treated him, and even managed to untangle the weird comment about “hoarding toilet paper” he’d made early in their acquaintance. Dean finds himself flabbergasted at what the man has been through, and the amount of information he was willing to reveal about himself to a virtual stranger. Chuck smiles nervously at him, and shrugs.

“Part of my therapy was to talk about what happened,” Chuck tells him as they walk by a room with people sitting in a circle. Chuck nods to the person who seems to be in charge, a man with brown long hair who has a lollipop sticking out of his mouth, and then leaves him once they reach the back lawn. It’s a huge property, kind of like a country club, and Dean takes a deep breath. “Hey, Dean,” Chuck calls back as Dean begins to walk down the path and the lieutenant colonel turns around, “check the firing range for the wounded vets. You might like them,” Chuck has a weird, smug smile on his face and Dean shakes his head in amusement and keeps on walking.

A few minutes after walking he hears the unmistakable sound of guns firing. He has a brief moment when his heart thuds hard against his chest, and he wants to bolt, but he forces himself to walk towards it. He hears whoops as he nears, and he has a brief flash of his training years when they were so green and excited about hitting a metal target more than twice. He remembers the clouds of dust that rose, the sweat pouring down his forehead onto his eyes due to his gear, the glint of competition in Mikey and Charlie’s eyes. _This_ he’s familiar with.

“That was a very nice shot,” a quiet voice tells the two whoopers. Dean draws closer and sees two wheel chairs and a man standing at parade rest. One of the men seems all right, while the other one is missing both of his lower limbs. They don’t hold Dean’s interest, even with his morbid curiosity, but the man standing up allures him from the get-go. He’s tall, a few inches shorter than Dean, and he’s wearing fraying jeans that hug his hips and ass to perfection. His button up is rolled at his elbows, and there’s a great definition of muscle on his arms that suggests he has his arms crossed, and Dean finds himself staring. He’s so captivated by wondering what could cause that major bedhead that he doesn’t realize that the man with the lower limbs has turned around and is smirking at him.

“Hey, greenie!” the man calls. The man standing up whirls abruptly, and an intense cobalt gaze meets Dean. Dean spares one look at the man who called out, short spiky blond hair and a mischievous smirk, before focusing on the gorgeous man who is now looking at him with his head tilted to the side. They lock gazes one more time, and they might have lost track of time, because the blond man speaks again and his voice is heavily amused.

“Got a little spacey, greenie?” he taunts again. This seems to break them out of their trance, and they both blow out air through their nose. Dean with anger, and the other man with something like fond exasperation.

“Luc, that is enough, thank you. Continue your practice, you’ve missed one shot more than last time,” this seems to cut through blondie quickly as he pouts.

“You’re no fun, Cassie,” he tells the man, and Dean sees Blue Eyes quickly hide a smile behind a squint.

“Continue your practice. Raph, let me know if he cheats,” the man in the other wheel chair nods solemnly, and Blue Eyes motions for Dean to follow him a ways off.

They walk in, surprisingly, comfortable silence for a few minutes. Dean’s surprised at how at ease he feels at the moment with this man, and doesn’t try to break the peaceful atmosphere they’ve created. Once they’ve reached a small man made late, and it’s pier, Blue Eyes stops and assesses Dean with that curious (and frankly adorable) head tilt.

“You must be the new recruit,” and he smiles a dorky smile at his own joke. Dean can’t help but be amused, even if a part of him tells him he should be bothered to be referred to as such.

“I suppose so,” Dean tells him.

“Chuck said you’d be dropping by, but he never said you’d come directly to the firing ring. That’s good, though,” Blue Eyes tells him quickly when he sees him frowning. It’s Dean’s turn to look puzzled and the other man chuckles. “It usually takes a while for anyone to come this far. The dust, the sound of guns, the feel of metal in ones hands… it can be… a bit overwhelming for most. You’re either a lot further than the rest, or just very good at controlling yourself,” Dean knows he’s prodding him for information, but he doesn’t feel defensive about it. rather, he feels at ease. Knowing that this man might know what he’s going through puts him in a comfortable position.

“Very tight leash, actually,” Dean chuckles lightly. “You should see me at night,” and it doesn’t even come out as an innuendo or anything. It’s quiet and vulnerable, and Blue Eyes merely smiles serenely at him.

“Don’t worry,” he tells him, “it took me years to get this far.” Dean looks up, and he sees the surprised look on the other man’s face at this admission, and grins. He doesn’t know, after talking to Blue Eyes for a few hours after that, why he fought so hard against this. If this is what help feels like, if this is what talking does… hell, he was an idiot for not coming round sooner.

“Hey!” Dean calls as Blue Eyes walks into the facility and he goes on his way to the parking lot. The other man looks up, puzzled, and Dean shoots him a smile. “I don’t even know your name! Should I just keep calling you Blue Eyes?”

“Castiel,” the other man answers in his gravelly voice. It carries through the space between them, and Dean rolls the name on his tongue. “My name’s Castiel.”

“All right, Cas,” Dean tells him with a grin. “I’ll see you soon, Cas!” he calls and waves as he walks away. He doesn’t miss the gummy smile the other man gives him, and he finds that a little bit of weight has been lifted off his chest again, just like with Sammy.


End file.
